I wake up with a stabbing pain,
I force myself to wake up from this nightmare,
and when I finally look in the mirror...
"Wait, what? How did that happen?"

There's violet and crimson marks on me.
They're encapsulating me,
making me feel like I deserved this,
and I did.

The shrinks in their ivory towers tell you
To not be afraid,
Stand up for yourself,
Show them what you're made of, and to
Never back down.

I'm pinned to the floor,
and my legs are paralyzed.
I was left in a puddle of my own pulpy, ****** mess.

and it's my fault.

His voice echoes in my mind.

"Maybe if you didn't act this way, I wouldn't do this,
You're a terrible person and I feel sorry for the people who think you're not. Nobody loves you. People would throw you out in the street if they knew what you've done."

That was the night that he took everything from me,
He took my freedom,
He took my ability to communicate,
He took everything from me,
And he doesn't know why.

Sometimes, I don't know why he does these things.

Isolation consumes me like cable news telecasters consume the minds of sheep, and everyone is programmed to think and act as if the world is coming to an end.

Everyone acts like a victim.

There's two parts to such an accusation;
Victimization
Survival

But, there's a third part that no one tells you about.
Coping mechanisms

I can't stand up for myself.
"You're worthless."

I can't show them what I'm made of.
"Nobody loves you."

Berating, belittling, and biting me with your words.
It shows more scars on me than your fists.

"Why do you do this to me?"
"You must not care about how I feel."
"Why are your crying? Are you pitying yourself?"
"Have you realized that what you've done is wrong?"
"When will you learn?"

I'm not your child.
I'm not your lover.


Make a safety plan,
Get out while you still can,
Don't blame yourself.

You have every right to react the way you want
When he's not treating you right.

Don't let him gaslight you.


You've been through this before.

Don't let him get to you.

You're better than that.

You

are

a

survivor.

one minute i feel like i'm fine
the next, i couldn't care less if i live or die
i wonder if this is what it's like
to exist without living

my eyes are tired and
your arms are closed
i look up at the ceiling and i'm alone
it's too cold in this home

my eyes won't close 'cause i can't sleep
your arms won't open 'cause you don't care about me

i stopped looking both ways before i cross the street
you started looking at the colours in the sky
those things i used to love became the sparkles in your eyes
my reasons for living faded like sunset into night

i want to die

what you see:
me, quiet and deadly still in a way that
i never am
staring into empty space or
at a blank wall. maybe i'm
counting cracks or cataloging creases.
you see me zone out—
such an airhead, that George is
i wonder what he's imagining

what i see:
ivory skin and hair as orange as
sunset, and she is as beautiful...
on the outside;
but on the inside, she is a
black hole.
she ****** me in
and i thought she was the light
at the end of the tunnel.
i must have been a traveller
stranded and thirsty in the desert
crawling towards mirages.
now i am helpless.

i am watching her line her legs with ink
as she tells me to make sure that she
doesn't line her legs
with blood.
meanwhile, i scratch deep
at an itch that isn't there
and call it catharsis.
i am seeing white tiles and
a translucent shower curtain and
a sink and soaps and everything is
normal—except the girl
sitting in a bathtub
naked without water
and bare skin has never made me feel more
ill.

what you hear:
ambient sounds.
my breathing, perhaps.

what i hear:
she hums like a Disney villain
brewing potions
and calling it tea. she looks
like a princess
but her words are witch's curses
and i'm hexed
under her spell,
hanging by a thread
to every word she's ever said
and somehow not noticing
the noose she looped around my neck.
darling, choke me
'til I can only breathe as well as your drowning lungs
as you gasp into your oxygen mask

what you see:
i'm having a panic attack.

what you hear:
i'm hyperventilating.

hands as big as my face
and a scream that was
louder than my cries

daddy's got a bottle of red,
it's okay
he just enjoys the finer things in life

daddy i don't know your new girlfriend
please hold my hand
daddy please

daddy, i think i like your girlfriend
more than i like you
she cleaned me up when i was sick

you yelled at me for
getting ***** on the carpet;
but i'm certain red stains are harder to clean

i wonder if i was good at cross country,
if i got so fast
because of the way my tiny legs carried me up the stairs

away from you
that afternoon with a magazine cutout in your bag
number to a *** line

never dialled, you said, not mine, you said
daddy please don't chase me,
i just did what your girlfriend said

my step-brother taught me to box today
i punched the bag really hard.
punching you in the stomach felt better.

you're passed out on the sofa and
i can't wake you up.
your girlfriend sends you to bed and

we stay up.
there's horror movies on the TV;
she's asleep with the controls and

i can't get away
from the blood on the screen
and the little robot boy's tears as the cars crash into him.

i saw women's *******
in bed with Dracula.
i saw you perving

on the lesbians in the flats,
and then i fidgeted anxiously
when you told me you'd bury me under the slabs

if i turned out gay.
i didn't know what that meant back then but
father, i'm so gay now

you bruised my shoulders when i disowned you.
said "goodbye" with enough volume
it sounded more like a "*******"

you didn't care.
did you ever care?
i used to try and curl up to your side

i stopped doing that after a while.
i was young but i was smart,
knew to walk away when you got that slur on your lips

i was young but i was smart:
you don't take your eyes
off a predator

i was young but i was smart,
handled the ***** you gave to me and
crushed that cat's skull

and had nightmares about it
for weeks and weeks;
but i had to put it out of its misery

daddy, why do you hate cats?
daddy, please don't shoot it
DADDY, NO!

daddy, i can't breathe
stop smoking around me please.
mummy doesn't like the smell of it on my clothes.

stop smoking crack with the neighbours,
your girlfriend's talking **** about you
with his wife

pocket money doesn't replace affection
i'm talking **** about you
with your girlfriend.

i found out that you never treated my siblings
the way you treated me.
what the **** is so wrong with me?

twelve years old, finally in high school
mum said i can stop seeing you
dad, i don't wanna see you anymore

twice a year, always in December
just those two visits gave me enough things to remember
why i stopped the weekend trips

your money doesn't cure my ptsd
nor does it stop the nightmares.
i took it anyway

call it compensation.
measly amount as it was.
i'll never see you again now i'm eighteen

but trust me when i say
i'd rather be broke
than have broken spirits and broken bones

He dreamed
in hues of
bruises.

It’s the dull thud in my head,
Trying to count the calories I’ve eaten today.
Have I eaten enough?
Who knows,
I don’t care.

It’s the prickling sensation in my shoulders,
The panic that starts to rise,
When I think of someone touching me.
Why don’t I like it,
How can I make myself like it?
I give up.

It’s when I look for comfort,
And have to look to a therapist.
At least she’s unconditional,
Doesn’t expect anything from me.
Anything but $165 per hour.

That is when the realization sets in.

I’m tired of being this person my parents wanted.
This happy,
Healthy,
Optimistic person.
She’s not me.
I cry as I write this,
Because I think she died a long time ago,
And this imposter has been in her place.

This Hollow,
Feeble,
Weary imposter.

I tried to look for ways to bring her back,
A defibrillator,
As a hopeless last resort.

I tried running,
I tried lifting,
I was looking in the wrong place though.
Those were activities that made her into who she was,
That helped her along the wrong journey,
A journey not meant for her,
Chosen by someone else.

I tried reading,
Reading of all kinds.
I tried literature,
But she wasn’t interested in that.
I tried Young Adult Fiction,
That peaked her interest.
But only in the way
That it sparked hope.

She hated that hope,
Despised the hero prevailing,
Getting their lover in the end,
Fighting for their family,
Loving their family,
Being loved by their family.
She hated that hope,
Because it reminded her of what she wanted,
And was denied.

No,
Young Adult Fiction was not the way to go.

I tried Netflix,
Movies,
TV shows.
I wasn’t going to make the mistake of giving her hope though.
I gave her shows with dark themes,
Corruption.
With deceitful,
Untrusting characters.
Characters with scars,
And traumatic pasts.

This helped,
Not in the way I had intended though.
She found solace in those characters
That wore their trauma on their sleeves.
Those who had been to hell and back,
And had to deal with the consequences along the way.

And then I found poetry.
Poetry had always piqued her interest,
But she was unsure of it.
Didn’t know what to write about,
Or how to write.
Then,
One day,
She bought a book.

This book showed her that poetry didn’t have to have a rhyme scheme,
Didn’t have to have a set pattern or flow.
It could be raw,
Open,
Powerful with hidden meaning.

Suddenly that girl had a way to express herself.
All the shame she felt,
At the horrid feelings she hoarded inside,
She had a way to feel them.
A means to explore what she had desperately tried to hide.

Somewhere along the way,
That joyful,
Cheerful,
Shining girl died.
She died when she put the pen to paper,
And was faced with what had been done to her,
The childhood that had been stolen from her.
She died when she realized her hopes,
Hopes for somewhere to call home,
Somewhere that wasn’t trapping,
Confining,
Brimming with painful memories,
She died when she realized those hopes were also dead.

So I’m left,
Mourning at the gravestone.
Mourning who that girl had tried so hard to be,
For her parents,
And for the sake of those who pretended to care.

But with her death,
She granted a freedom.
A freedom to become whoever I want,
Whoever I’m feeling that day.
No restrictions,
Limitless boundaries,
Of what I want to do,
Who I want to be,
And where I want to go.

For now I am empty.
Hollow from all the expectations,
Of who people wanted me to be.
Of who I tried to be.
Of who I couldn’t be.

For now I will be hollow,
I will be empty,
I will be sad.
I will mourn the death of someone I loved.
And then when the time comes,
I will be whomever I want to be next,
Because that hopeful girl gave me that freedom,
And I will not let her death be in vain.

I’m quiet.
I’m afraid if I say anything I’ll start crying,
Screaming,
Laughing,
Maybe all three. That would be something to see.

Sometimes I wonder if there is something wrong with me,
Something fundamentally wrong in my brain.
Why don’t I like people touching me?
It’s not like I was abused,
Or *****,
Sexually harassed.
I don’t have an excuse off the top of my head,
I just don’t like it.

I’ve asked before,
Asked for this one boundary.
She uses every part of me.
I am a tool,
Something to show off.
I get it.
I just hoped that maybe,
Just maybe,
Touch could be my one thing.
Just please don’t touch me.

I feel bad for you,
My Mother said as she grabbed my face,
No one will ever love you.
She’s probably right.
How could anyone love what they couldn’t touch?
Still I had to ask,
Just please don’t touch me.

We are in a small, confined booth now.
She wraps her arm around me to take a picture,
Even makes a big show of prefacing it with an apology.
I know you don’t like being touched,
But,
I’m going to touch you for this picture.
This picture I will show off to all my facebook friends,
I’ll show off my happy family,
My successful daughter.
Look how happy we all are.

Her bracelet caught on my sweater.
She leaned close,
I could feel her breath on my neck and I panicked,
She was so close.
I ****** away,
My body slammed into the wall of the booth.

I could see an apology on her lips,
I could see the maternal instinct starting to kick in,
Just to watch it be drowned by the hurt in her eyes.

Being hurt,
Pain,
It can look like many things.
To me it looks like My Mother lashing out,
Verbal knives pinning me against a wall.
This is the look that drowned out any maternal instinct in her eyes.
She excused herself to the bathroom.
I knew I should’ve gone to apologize.
Say that I didn’t mean to,
Blame it on a headache.

But I was scared.
Fear gripped me and held me in that booth seat.
I knew if I got up,
Went to that bathroom,
She would only scream false lies at me.
She wouldn’t mean them.
They’d still hurt.

So later that night,
When my Mother was crying and crying in the hotel room next to mine,
My Dad texted me
Asked me to meet him in the lobby.
I got down there and the look on his face said it all,
I had failed.
I burst into tears.

He dragged me into a conference room,
Looking around to make sure no attendants or workers noticed.
Asked why I had done it,
Informed me of all the pain, and suffering my Mother is now going through,
Because of me.
Because I couldn’t withstand her touching me for more than 15 seconds,
For a stupid God forsaken picture.

When I found a space between my tears and his accusations,
I plead that I had tried.
I tried my best to be okay with it.

I couldn’t explain to him that it was more than just dislike.
It was invasive,
Whatever instinctual fight or flight switch I had,
Touch triggered it.
How could I tell him it made me feel repulsed,
Revolted,
Disgusted,
Nauseated,
It tore my insides to pieces trying to hold myself together for a picture.
How could I tell him any of this?

So I cried and cried and cried.
And when I got back upstairs,
Saw the notifications on my phone,
And checked on facebook to see that happy picture,
Of a happy daughter,
A happy mother,
And a happy family,
I felt ashamed

I felt guilty,
I felt wrong.
They all wanted this,
They wanted this picture to be true,
And I didn’t know how to give it to them.

my head is pulsating
with the sound waves of your beating heart
that used to lull me to sleep
back when i resided in that
angry basement you called home